


Donny

by kerys



Series: Big Damn Verse: Ficlets [4]
Category: Firefly
Genre: Gen, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-21
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2018-01-02 05:59:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kerys/pseuds/kerys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An ex-soldier, broken by war, gets gloriously drunk and finds his way to a confessional.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Donny

Donny remained on his knees in the confessional, unwilling to rise before God. He closed his eyes a long moment, steadying himself. He knew the priest could smell the drink and it shamed him. He almost laughed at that, that he could still be shamed by something so small. The drink brought his accent out of hiding with a vengence, it made him reluctant to begin. It and everything else.

“Bless me Fahder, for I ‘ave sint…” He paused, at a loss for words. He had no idea how long it had been since his last confession. When he left for the war? Surely not… His voice was little more than a whisper as he continued, “I… I don’ remember when I las’ confesst… 2505?” Ten years. He opened his mouth to offer an excuse, an explanation. And he closed it again.

“Go on, son. You’re here now. That’s what matters most.”

Raking his fingers through his perpetually mussed hair he turned his face skyward, amber eyes filled with pain. “I killed. Durin’ t’e war. A lot o’ men. On bot’ sides. An’ I caused t’e deat’s of so many more.” He regretted it, but not nearly as much as he could’ve. His hands fell limply to his sides. “I lied. Pretended t’ be a man I wasn’, wit’ beliefs t’at weren’ mine. But I paid for t’at already. God wouldn’ ask more t’an what t’ey’ve done t’ me. An’ I hated ‘em. Och… how I hated…” He was silent a long minute.

“I tried t’ go back home. T’ teach again. But I couldn’ sit t’ere an’ look at t’ose kids’ faces an’ see t’e people t’ey’d become. I could hear t’e most beautiful o’ words fall from t’eir lips, but I’d close me eyes, an’ all I’d see was t’e horrible t’ings t’ey could do t’ each ot’er… I tried for two years… T’en t’e nightmares began. Babbies killin’ babbies… Torturin’… I left in t’e middle o’ t’e night…” He swallowed awkwardly.

“I got on a boat. T’ey needed a gun, an’ I still carried a few. It’s been a year now. We’ve robbed people. Such people as could afford it. An’ we’ve killed, when it was needed. Defendin’ ourselves an’ what was ours. On top of it all, every day t’at I live t’is life, I shame me parents. Me mot’er would weep t’ see me.”

All of it pained him, but so much of it wouldn’t change. It was the only life he knew how to live, here and now. His God, the one he grew up with in his heart, wasn’t exactly the one in his da’s book. His God could forgive a man doing what he must, even if he’d no intention of stopping. If that man was sorry. If that man felt the pain that he’d caused. But leaving his class was the one thing he felt couldn’t be forgiven. Leaving his children. The next person to stand before those kids might not know the monsters that men become. And how could that person prevent it, if they couldn’t even see?

Tears slid down his cheeks, bright streaks in the dim light. “God wanted me t’ teach, and I cannot do it. T’e first time I stood before ’em, I _knew_ it was what He wanted. I was filled wit’ such _joy_. An’ t’ey listened. T’ey swallowed every word like drops of water offered one by one to a man dying of t‘irst…” His voice warmed with the memory. The passion. But when he spoke again, it was cold and flat with despair. “But if I went back t’ t’at classroom… I’d eat a bullet inside a week…” He didn’t know what else to say. “Lord Jesus, Son o’ God, have mercy on me, a sinner.”

The priest couldn’t absolve a man intent on sinning tomorrow, couldn’t console a man who felt every day of his life was in defiance of divine will, couldn’t advise a man who saw suicide at the end of his path back to God. They both sat in silence. Donny was merely relieved to have spoken. He had never expected absolution. The priest wanted to ask the man’s story, to learn what had turned this devout man, a tender of Christ’s most precious lambs, into the desolate, hopeless creature before him. He bowed his head into his open hands. Their silence was oddly companionable.


End file.
